it's official: 30-day notice.

There are some things in life I'll ball-bustingly do. I'll kick that douchebucket in the balls. I'll slap an assclown. I'll tell my mom she's wearing "mom jeans" (if she did, but she doesn't because she's stylish). I won't lie and say your baby is cute when it resembles a tire flap. And I'll pour you a hefty shot after you have a pregnancy scare.


But there are somethings I won't - like give 30-days notice on our current place.


I can't believe we've been in California for almost a year. At this time last year, I was not working anymore with my cronies in Virginia Beach. I was reigning in my last moments as "Aunt Bop" to Mommy McD's (horribly stinkin' adorably cute) 2 out of 3 offspring (the latest was still in utero). And I was trying to wrap my head around a D(o)ITY(ourself) move. Long story short: By the time Mr. Wookie actually had orders cut and called the moving people that same day, because of all the Academy grad influx, there wasn't an available date for 3 weeks. And that didn't work when the boat needed him sooner than that.


It may have took us 4 days to find a place, but this town has tried to be good to us.


And then we got a dog. I'm trying to make this post coherent - no, I haven't been drinking.


If you go back to this post, you can see we live in a condo building where there's no direct and privatized access to a yard. We have to go outside the building, onto the huge lawns to walk the dog and let her drop a deuce. So you can imagine the fun to be had when Mr. Wookie's gone, and someone (me) has to leash up Miss Sweet Pea for urination every 4-6 hours. I'm over it. I've been over it for months. I've also been voicing my displeasure with the situation for months (much to Mr. Wookie's dismay). I've never been a fan of suburbia, but BRING IT ON!


So beginning mid-month I began the hounding process of finding new digs in a county where half of the housing is pure shit, the other half is Real Housewives material. First off, which houses don't allow dogs? That narrowed the list heavily. Secondly, which houses are in neighborhoods where the Crime.com reading is off the charts? Thirdly, he loves granite, I love hardwood floors, and we both love neighborhood security teams (no, really, we have that in our neighborhood now because the surrounding area is skeeeeeezy).


Unlike the last move where everything was handled by Mr. Wookie, I took the bull by the horns with this one. I made a Google doc spreadsheet with each house, their contact number and name, details on the property, thoughts post-tour, future tours scheduled, and ultimate decisions. I think I impressed that boy of mine.


After touring, discussing, touring again, further discussing, discussing some more, touring another property just as a last ditch effort, we found a new place. That means it's time to break the news to the current landlord - something I wanted Mr. Wookie to do because he's a boy and that's their job.


Too bad Uncle Sam told me to "Nut up and shut up." Mr. Wookie had to fly that day. So I gave the written notice myself. And it wasn't that hard. I know resisting Girl Scout cookies is harder...


So there you have it. We're moving. Mere miles away from our current home. And thanks to recently moved squadronmates, we've accumulated enough boxes to fill the Ark. Time to get packing. Now who else is for hire? I'll pay in beer. And you can walk my dog.